


Contes de fées

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Original Work
Genre: F/F, Gen, abuse tw, and brown, and loves fairy tales, caspian grew up in france, caspian is bi, he's a sailor, liliandil is a lesbian, miraz is a dick, no knowledge of the narnia series required, self indulgent au in which caspian is from earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 19:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16226246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: The fairy tales vanish off his curriculum the next day. There is no Raiponce now, dragging herself out of her misery by her hair, no Cendrillon, defiant and beautiful and determined, no Belle au bois dormant, no beasts and beauties to rescue. Instead, there’s numbers and calculations and the word’s history in foot notes.So he sneaks into the study at night, his feet in thick socks, his eyes wide, and steals the book back, tucks it under his jumper, close to his heart. And every night, he reads, reads all that his uncle has locked away, can almost taste the salt and the wind on his lips. Peau d'Âne hides behind fur and dirt and runs from her family, takes charge of her life, and for a moment, he can feel her freedom as she sets foot into another country, as she works for herself, as she dances and dreams. And then, an owl calls somewhere and he is still in his room, under the blanket, clutching the pages.





	Contes de fées

 

_Il était une fois -_

 

The air around him tastes like salt, the wind tugging at his hair, his hands rough against the rope. The spray is cold on his skin, the wood of the ship groaning underneath him, the dryads sighing with each wave. The clouds are billowed high, the sky dark, and the captain shouts orders, his face a grimace of panic.

No one saw the storm coming.

The sky was light blue, the sea still and quiet, the ship smooth, their mouths ragged laughter, shouts of gossip, the rum bottle going in circles. His wife, with her hands in the navigator’s hair, had laughed, glowing, pressing soft kisses to her neck.

Now, she stands at the bow of the ship, her skin aglow, her scarf wound tightly around her throat, her fingers digging into the railing “Take in the sails!” The captain’s voice is sharp and ragged, the wind howling around them. He can feel the burn at his hands, the strength of it pulling at his skin. “Take in the sails or we will capsize!”

Take in the sails, sailor, get them down, down, down, lest the wind blows you over and drowns you in the water around you, mounting up before crashing down, your clothes soaked, clinging to you, cold against your skin. Take in the sails, sailor, nevermind the wind and all his strength tearing at you, get this ship down to its bones. Take in the sails, sailor, this ship’s bones is all you need.

Keep your eyes on your wife, a glowing point in front of all of you, now that all the lamps have been blown out, now that the light house is hidden behind clouds and rain, now that all you can see is the sea raging around you. Keep your eyes on your wife, and her billowing trousers, all the sky’s constellations on her skin.

 

He is five years old when his uncle first looks at him and sneers, his face something frothing. He is holding up his copy of ‘Grimm’s fairy tales’, old and worn as he found it hidden in a drawer. “I won’t have you reading this”, he says and grows taller, somehow, taller even than the ceiling looming above them. “It fills your head with nonsense.”

He throws the book back into the drawer with a scoff and a flick of his wrist. “Princesses and balls and happy endings.” He laughs. “That’s not how the world works.”

The fairy tales vanish off his curriculum the next day. There is no _Raiponce_ now, dragging herself out of her misery by her hair, no _Cendrillon_ , defiant and beautiful and determined, no _Belle au bois dormant_ , no beasts and beauties to rescue. Instead, there’s numbers and calculations and the word’s history in foot notes.

So he sneaks into the study at night, his feet in thick socks, his eyes wide, and steals the book back, tucks it under his jumper, close to his heart. And every night, he reads, reads all that his uncle has locked away, can almost taste the salt and the wind on his lips. _Peau d'Âne_ hides behind fur and dirt and runs from her family, takes charge of her life, and for a moment, he can feel her freedom as she sets foot into another country, as she works for herself, as she dances and dreams. And then, an owl calls somewhere and he is still in his room, under the blanket, clutching the pages.

“Stop dreaming”, his uncle says. “You won’t lead the company with dreams.” And _Blanche-Neige_ takes the ribbons, the corset, the apple, drenched in hate and poison and swallows herself down.

 

He is fifteen when his uncle’s son is born, and he runs away that same night, still in his pyjamas, his eyes burning, his book full of fairy tales and all the money he could find in his pockets. _Frérot et Sœurette_ run with him, their legs still bound, their hearts in their throat.

The harbour is full of voices, chattering and screaming, the water laps gently at the footbridge, and a ship, fully loaded and swaying with the soft breeze, lies at anchor, a group of people standing before it, laughing and talking.

He takes a deep breath, stuttering and heavy in his throat. “Excuse me.” They turn around, their skin sunburnt, their hands rough and he clasps his hands behind his back. “Are you hiring?” _Jean-la-Chance_ cheers somewhere under his skin, and he smiles, smiles, smiles.

 

He meets his wife two weeks into the rigging, his hands open and bleeding, his hair in knots. She has her arm slung around the navigator, whose eyes are crinkling, her sunburnt skin softer, somehow. She tangles her hands through his hair and laughs, her freckles shimmering in the soft sunset. “New here, huh?” Her voice is a tumble of laughter and shrugs. She grins and pushes at his shoulders. “Sit. I’ll help you with your hair.”

She braids it, the pull of it straining against his scalp, her fingers careful and soft. “You are lucky we didn’t have to cut it”, she says when she twists the braid up, pins it down.

“Thank you.”

She laughs, the glow of it stronger now that the sun has gone down. “No worries. It’s a classic newbie mistake, keeping your hair open. Horrid idea with all this wind, but most people don’t think about that.” She points to her scarf and grins. “I have it easy.”

They develop a routine, after that, chatting and laughing and braiding each other’s hair after washing it, pinning it down. Sometimes, the navigator sits with them, her head on his wife’s lap, reading a book.

 

He marries her in a fit of desperate drunkenness, when she tumbles at his feet, her eyes rimmed red. “I can’t stay”, she says, slurring, her voice full of tears. “He wants me home.” He wants me home, he wants me married, he wants me back. So he grabs her by the shoulders, the world a swirling mess around him. “No”, he says, just as the navigator screams the same. “No, don’t you dare go back.”

He is a frothing monster lapping at her feet, reeling her in, in, in until she is all but still and unmoving, tied to his bed. “I can try”, she says. “If I just tried hard enough -” He doesn’t say what she told him, late at night, about the bile in her throat and all the girls she’d wanted to kiss, all the boys she kissed instead. He doesn’t remind her of her shaking hands, the gas light flickering in her mind, the engagement band cold and hard on her hands.

Instead, he grabs her by the shoulders, in this swirling world. “I’ll marry you”, he says. “I’ll marry you if you just stay.” Don’t go back into the pitch black tar, don’t go back only to be drowned in him. The world dips and bucks and she stares at him, with salt stained cheeks.

He doesn’t say the words rising in his throat, a plea of ‘I need you, I need you braiding my hair, I need you and your glow, I need your laugh, I need you to be safe.’ Instead, he looks at their navigator, who looks sick, and small, suddenly.

The Captain marries them as they are, drunk and crying, their clothes wet.

It’s not what he imagined as a child, not the same breathlessness, but when he looks at his wife and her glow leading them all, he feels as free as he did when he first picked up a fairy tale.

 

_\- ils vécurent heureux jusqu'à la fin de leurs jours._


End file.
